


Spoil the Child

by Atra Materia (TheDarkMaterial)



Category: Trinity Blood
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Mind Control, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-21
Updated: 2007-06-21
Packaged: 2017-10-06 07:11:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDarkMaterial/pseuds/Atra%20Materia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When God's creations become tiring, man's must suffice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spoil the Child

The world is a toy store, and he is the richest brat on the planet.

He can, if it pleases him, have a new plaything each day of the week; each hour of the day. He has never had to throw a tantrum, never been told 'No' - firstly because there are no parents to refuse his demands, and secondly because if there were, he would simply pull their strings as he pulls those of his toys.

He has never had a playmate; because 'mate' infers one willing, one equal, and there is no one equal to him. In Dietrich's jaded eye, all beings are beneath - their bodies nothing more than clay to be shaped, their voices the empty prattle of the ocean as heard through a shell. Terran or Methuselah, it makes no difference - he is the Puppetmaster, and commands them all.

_Dance, my pretties, dance._

Sometimes, he allows them to believe they are in control of their own destinies - allows them their petty squabbles and holy wars; allows them to feed from who they will, to dominate who they will, to fuck who they will. But in the end, he always reveals the truth. He cannot help but let them in on the great secret; for he is a sadist fueled by horror and futility, and their responses amuse him.

He has had the human and the vampire, the young and the old, the king and the serf. When he tires of them - or breaks them beyond functionality - he throws them aside. Sometimes they are already dead; and sometimes, they can only pray they will die.

He tires of them quickly these days. Once upon a time, he could entertain himself for weeks with a single plaything - but that was when his powers were new and his knowledge limited; when he could still uncover a secret around the bend of a knee or the crook of a soul and needed practice to put it to use. Now, he has unravelled it all - read every mind, committed every sin, tasted every perversion. For Dietrich, there is nothing new under the sun - or the sheets.

Pushed from the bed, the head of a china doll cracks as it hits the floor. She'd been human - once - a pretty little thing with russet hair and great vapid blue pools for eyes, just blossoming into womanhood. He'd called her Esther - not because that was her name, but because she reminded him of the whore who wore it properly. He'd had designs on the little sister that went beyond the Contramundi's master plan; personal designs, pleasurable designs. She'd been _pure,_ and he'd wanted to be the one to take that from her.

His own mind has always been the hardest to control, and he cannot force from it the image of Esther; naked and arching beneath the Crusnik and screaming God's true name. He sees it not because he has witnessed it, but because it is in _her_ mind and she has always been an open book to him. He knows her like the Bible - or believes he does - knows what she hopes, what she fears, what she craves. It does not matter that her body is as untouched as ever, that her hymen is intact. Her soul is soiled by lust and her cunt as wet as Jezebel's. She is nothing to him now.

He could seduce the Crusnik, and in doing so wallow in revenge and corruption all at once, but when it comes right down to it - Abel is too easy. The sinful angel has already fallen, and though Dietrich cannot deny that there is a certain pleasure to be found in the notion of dragging him back down - it is simply not the same. Besides, he has already tasted Crusnik - he remembers the blood on Cain's lips, and what it felt like to, if only for an instant, have done unto him as he does unto others. To be a puppet. No, he needs something new: An untainted mind, an unexplored body, an unstretched hole.

He needs the Gunslinger. A construct of the Church, Tres is neither human nor Methuselah. What he believes is not what he has chosen to accept, but what he has been programmed to believe. He has no experience with free will, and if he perceives that it exists, does so only because he has been designed to. Taking him apart and tearing him down will require another method entirely, and Dietrich is aching to try.

***

"Damage report."

The uninflected voice echoes hollowly off naked walls. In the darkness, Dietrich smiles.

It had been easy enough to summon Iqis. It had required the sacrifice of another toy, but that was alright. He'd had no intentions of playing with it again - and so, armed with a pistol in either hand, mocking the Gunslinger himself, it had been sent to the Vatican and instructed to open fire on whatever ranking official it encountered first. As he'd expected, the lackeys of the Pope had preferred to respond via messenger boy rather than risk their own lives for the Lord - and when the sacrificial lamb led the chase into the streets, Dietrich had been waiting with a wire in his hand and a snap at his wrist. Tres hadn't known what hit him.

"Motility at thirty percent and further reduced by restraint. Extensive epidermal and subcutaneous burning. Beginning regeneration sequence."

The construct's ability to repair itself is a credit to Vatican technology, he supposes. It had been a risk to shock it into submission, but one worth taking - and even if the Gunslinger had been destroyed, well - that would have been one less minion of God to take down later.

"Unable to assess location. Regeneration at fifty percent."

Already, Dietrich's cock is stirring. He could seize Tres now, while the construct is still unable to defend itself; but that would be a brief and unsatisfying pleasure. So much better to wait for the time when it can again move on its own, then take control of those movements away. He intends to be both rapist and rapee; forcing the unman of God to commit sins of wrath and lust.

Unman of God. That causes him to pause for a moment. Could there be a flaw in his plan - one that he would be blameless for, of course? Dietrich is perfect and makes no mistakes - but in the Vatican search for the same, might Tres' creators have left out the pieces that lead to such sins?

"Regeneration at seventy-five percent."

Perhaps now is the time to find out, while he can still put the Gunslinger down with ease. There is no reason to waste time and energy on an already-broken toy, after all; even on its death. He steps from the shadows; a pale sliver of moonlight washing across his face.

"Unfamiliar individual. Please identify."

Dietrich only smiles. In another time and place, he might have been offended to find himself absent from the construct's databanks - but now, it only means that Tres will not expect what lies ahead; any more than he had expected the sparking wire to strike from behind. As he sinks to his knees before the Gunslinger's chair, his hands are already stretching forth to part the black sea of priestly frocks; to unbuckle the heavy belt; to dip within and _down,_ and see if the only thing that Tres is capable of firing is made of gunpowder and oiled steel.

Tres, programmed only for defense and destruction, does not understand immediately why his captor does this, and so does not think to object. On Dietrich's lips, the devil's smile twists all the wider. He should have known better than to doubt the fanatical loyalty of the Vatican - for God made man in His own image, and His servants would never dare to change the design. The grasping hands withdraw. He rocks back to wait, arms draping his knees.

"Regeneration at ninety percent. Location still undetermined. Unfamiliar individual, please identify."

Now is the time. Dietrich closes his eyes and lets his mind float wide. For an instant, he is everywhere and nowhere - then he is plunging down; light into a black hole.

_I am God,_ he informs the darkness; but there comes no reply. Whether intentional or incidental, the construct's mind is not intended to respond to such contact. A stranger in a strange land, Dietrich stands now in the midst of an endless expanse. He had expected to find himself in unfamiliar territory, but this - nothingness - is not at all what he had prepared for.

Somewhere else, his body breathes. In the Gunslinger's, he waits for his mind's eye to adjust. Gradually, motes of light appear on the horizon; not stars, but numbers on a black screen. One-zero-zero, one-zero-one, zero-one-zero-one. He recognizes them but cannot decode them; he is a programmer of humans, not of machines.

The strings rush past him, and like a cat entranced by the promise of play, he reaches out to tug at one. Outside, the Gunslinger's hand moves, and Dietrich abruptly realizes that he knows this not because he has seen it, but because he has felt it as if the hand were his own. Smug satisfaction floods him. So, that is the secret - each strand of numbers is connected to an action, and each action to the appropriate set of nerves. He amuses himself for a time by experimenting with the binary synapses; blinking Tres' eyes, flexing Tres' fingers, shuffling Tres' feet. They are simple movements, but one must learn to crawl - This world is wholly new, and that alone is worth starting from the beginning.

He has no way of knowing how much time has passed outside, but the subject is not one that concerns him. Until the Gunslinger is needed, the Vatican is unlikely to notice that he is gone - and even should that occur, there are a thousand other places to search within Rome. Dietrich's lair is well-hidden. At last, he extracts himself from Tres; leaving behind but a tenuous tendril to maintain his influence. It is enough. Settled comfortably into his own body, he opens his eyes; the faceted vision of a parasitic fly. He sees Tres before him, and through Tres, he sees himself.

Though at times, it amuses him to wipe wholly the minds of his victims and leave nothing behind but a will-less doll, he has chosen tonight to leave Tres aware but unable. He craves the feedback he receives from such trapped souls - the fear, the guilt, the despair. With none of that himself, he rises; moving behind the Gunslinger and releasing the bonds that had until now held the construct in place. With Dietrich in control, they are no longer needed.

Hazy and distant, the numbers whirl. Tres is attempting to stand. With one process denied, another commences; the construct now scanning itself for damages that had somehow gone unnoticed. Zero-zero-one, one-one-zero, zero-one-zero-one-one-ze-_eglible; functionality should be restored._ And the assessment should have been spoken aloud. When it, too, fails, the Gunslinger's confusion only increases. Dietrich is pleased that he can understand this. His grasp on the situation - on Tres - is secure.

As he returns to his place in front of Tres, a lazy smile crawls across his mouth. Its palm turned up, he lifts a hand - and the construct draws to its feet. _Go here,_ he says without speech; they dance, an exchange of positions that leaves Tres standing before the chair and Dietrich sinking into the same.

_Come,_ he continues, and the Gunslinger takes a step forward. _You may worship me._

Tres may not be versed in the ways of the world, but he has been drilled in those of Heaven, and it is as he begins fumbling with the front of Dietrich's pants that understanding dawns. As reaches unwilling for the forbidden fruit that lies hidden behind those fly-leaves, Dietrich deigns to allow him to vent his futile, righteous objections.

"This is an abomination." His voice resonates in the bare-walled chamber, and Dietrich only smiles again.

"And what are you, living creation of Man?" he counters - but Tres does not answer, for his mouth is otherwise occupied. There is warmth and moisture around Dietrich's cock, and he gasps; the half-stiffened member swelling further to fill the yawning cavern. Beneath a flutter of lashes, his eyes roll back; while his hands find their way to the edges of the chair and latch on hard. Within the construct's head, the numbers whirl with the sheer _wrongness_ of it; even as his lips seal and his tongue rises to stroke the underside of the pulsing shaft. A subtle sandpaper sensation on Dietrich's skin, it evokes a moan.

A muscle twitches, and the cock bobs in Tres' mouth. The edges of his teeth - had he thought to bite, he cannot - graze along it as he slides back. The ridge at the base of its head comes to rest just behind his lips, and the tongue that had been until now parallel to it rises to swirl around that mushroom bulge - to flow across it; to probe gently at the slit in its tip. There is fluid there, warm and salty, and through the Gunslinger, Dietrich tastes himself.

_It was for this that the children fled Eden,_ he comments to the buzzing numbers; streaks of blurred light on the walls of Tres' mind. _The garden of paradise given for one of carnal delights._ And O! what delights - there is the sex itself, simple and crude; there is the domination, power over body and soul; there is the _sin._ They are a luxurian buffet; he feasts from it, and is drunk off the wine of gluttonous indulgence. His own mind whirls ever-down a dizzying spiral of pleasure; he is at once both the shepherd and the lost lamb, one following the other to an inevitable demise.

The Puppetmaster is in control of the world, and at this moment, there is nothing else in it. Outside, it may well have come to an end; God's other creations eternally frozen in whatever pose it had found them in - a holy diorama. But in the devil's lair, there are Dietrich and Tres; a hungry, sucking mouth and an aching cock; sweat and flushed skin and the tightening of a nether sac and he is coming he is coming he is _dying;_ and the brilliant light of heaven is flashing through those closed eyes -

And then he is out and gasping, and his seed is spilling from the Gunslinger's mouth. In the construct's eyes, he can see himself - both on and through - and his reflection is tainted with rage and remorse. He but smiles benignly. Is he not a kind god, to allow the child a taste of the Knowledge Tree? For when Tres awakes, he will see the world anew. He may have fallen from grace, but salvation is at hand. He will rise, and Dietrich will come again.

Tres is on his feet, and for an instant, he looms over Dietrich as if their positions were reversed. A gloved hand stretches out and closes around his captor's throat; tossing the Puppetmaster from his chair as if he was nothing more than a doll himself. Sprawled hands and knees upon the floor, Dietrich turns an inviting grin over his shoulder. _Crucify me._

Fabric whispers in unknowable tongues as Tres' vestments slide to the foor - first the short cloak, which lands with a surprisingly-heavy thump; then the high-collared robe, which lands in an abyssal puddle at the Gunslinger's feet to leave his chest bare. His skin is unscarred and almost baby-smooth. The blessing of Vatican technology is that he will never bear the marks of his ruin, and the misery of Vatican technology is that he will never bear the marks of his ruin. He steps from the garments; advancing on Dietrich even before his pants are down. There is true horror in that number-driven mind, now; the characters so frenzied on their screen that it is little more than a wall of flickering white.

He reaches Dietrich and bends to set his hands on his master's waist; the still-gloved fingers digging in so fiercely that it brings teeth to grit and air to hiss as it rushes between. The fleeting pang is nothing compared to what is to come, though; the sharp thrust of a hardened cock into an unprepared hole. Even willing and wanting, there is resistance from the unlubricated orifice. It gives, though it does not yet open; it pushes back at Tres' prick with such force that the Gunslinger's grunt erupts from Dietrich's throat. At last, it yields to stretching lest it be torn; widening to engulf the virgin rod - it may not be spared, but he is certainly spoiled.

Dietrich's gasp is at once his own and someone else's. It is only in these moments that he feels - in the tiny part of his mind not otherwise in use - sorrow for his fellow beings; the imperfect creations that can only know one side of pleasure at a time - whereas he, he can have it all - and generally does. On Tres' end, there is friction, there is further resistance; there are tightness and heat, and a moisture perhaps better left undwelled on; and on Dietrich's - _in_ Dietrich's - there are stretch and give; the heavy fullness of cock and the strange vertigo of being explored. He twists beneath the Gunslinger - Wild West ride, Vatican bull - arches his back; lifts his hand to grab at his own dangling member. He seizes it with a ferocity that sends a fresh wave of pain searing from crotch to brain; but he is as much a masochist as a sadist now, and revels in it. His fingers clench and yank down hard; his skin wrinkling as he forces it along the engorged muscles below its cloak. The side of his hand strikes the ridge of the head and jerks back; only to rebound from the base of his body and repeat the process all over again.

Tres, too, pulls back; nearly withdrawing before ramming into Dietrich's ass once more. Flesh slaps against flesh; a hollow echo in the darkness. His motions are, suitably, mechanical; in that binary mind, the numbers have all but exploded. He is a toy broken in a brand-new way; a thought that sends as many shivers of delight down the Puppetmaster's mind as the cock in his pseudocunt and the hand at his groin. His lips part, and through them, he draws what shallow breaths he can between thrusts. Again, his eyes roll back beneath their lids; there is nothing to look at, nothing to see - only shadows distorting like demons in what faint light is emitted by the single bulb, and the grind of bodies lubricated by sweat - and that, that he can feel.

The Gunslinger does not have semen - that is one property the Vatican had not seen fit to equip him with - but Dietrich has enough for the both of them. As he shudders and cries out to a God that has turned his disgusted eye away, it spurts in great gouts from his twitching prick; coursing over his hand, dripping to the floor. His fingers clench and so does his ass, but Tres is no longer capable of feeling the vise closing on his cock. The Tres of an hour ago is no more. There is only the construct; standing dumbly behind Dietrich once it is allowed to pull away.

He will be kind, tonight, and put the Gunslinger together again - for in that kindness, there will be more cruelty than Tres Iqis has ever imagined. He will be himself, and he will be whole, and he will Know.

And then Dietrich will send him away with the taste of life's fruit still on his tongue, and sit back to see where the game will take him next.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Originally written for ann89103 in Slashfest Round V @ LJ. I know absolutely nothing about binary coding - all zeros and ones are random and any actual meaning is coincidental.


End file.
